Seriously?
What do they know? How dare they?
I’m about to stand and yell louder than my father—without even realizing it—when Mom’s firm hand on my arm saves me from a stadium fight.
She turns toward me, amused. “My goodness, Sloane, look how you’re staring at him.”
“I’m not staring!”
“You’ve been watchingonlyhim since we sat down.”
“He’s on the field, Mom! Watching the game is normal!”
“Mm-hmm… you realize you didn’t even ask who I was talking about, right?”
She gives me a wise, way-too-delighted look.
I hide my face in my scarf.
“Stop,” I mumble.
She smiles. “It’s strange, though. I’ve never seen him this… disconnected. He’s usually focused. Almost icy.”
“Maybe he’s just tired.”
“Or maybe…” She pauses, pretending to be interested in a commercial on the big screen.
“Or maybe what?”
“Nothing, dear.” Sip. “Oh, did you see that girl practically in a bra holding a sign that saysMarry me, Becker?”
Okay, she’s not literally in a bra—but she might as well be more dressedwithone.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you’re gripping your fork like a weapon and I thought I’d give you another reason to lose it.”
What?
I freeze.
God bless mothers who always take their daughters’ side.
Mine has apparently chosen to have fun at my expense.
“I’m not gripping anything.”
“Mm-hmm.”
The stadium noise dips for a moment.
A guy with his face painted red returns to his seat.
Two kids behind us argue about who’s stronger—Blaze or Turbo.
A man to our right shouts, “Becker, wake up! My grandma runs faster than you!”
I look back at the field.
